


more tender lands

by Ias



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Growing Old Together, Intercrural Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-11-02 00:29:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20560226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: He had watched Javert do it, for of course the man had not permitted Valjean to take the garment to a tailor; he’d bent over it himself, sitting by the window for the light, and sewed an orderly line of stitches into the waist until he was satisfied with a job well done. It was an image Valjean remembered quite vividly, for it had been the first of many such individual flashes whose composite had ultimately been revealed as love.





	more tender lands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nuizlaziai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuizlaziai/gifts).

> The concept: Javert thicc. Title from the Stephen Crane poem, because I couldn't remember the poem I actually wanted to quote from, so I went for a euphemism instead. 
> 
> Vin: thanks, as always, for being an unending source of joy and inspiration, and for enabling me in my Valvert PWPs. <3

“Hm.”

Valjean opened his eyes from the pleasant daze he had been drifting in. The soft noise Javert had made was one of minor irritation; he stood on the other side of the room--_ their _ room, Valjean delighted to remind himself--having just pulled on his trousers. Not fastened, though; he stood tugging the button towards its buttonhole across his stomach, to no avail.

“There’s no need to smirk,” Javert said upon looking up to find Valjean watching him. “This is all on account of you overfeeding me. And that damned apple bread your daughter insists on sending us.” 

“I do recall us each taking an extra slice,” Valjean murmured, his hand stretched laconically on his stomach. He has rarely felt so indolent as he does at times such as these: reclining in bed and watching Javert bustle around the room without his shoes or cravat or hat or coat, in states of dishevelment and undress that seemed utterly irreconcilable with the man himself. And yet this was Javert, doubtfully sucking in the stomach he’d begun to acquire; Javert whose warmth still lingered in the sheets beside him. 

Valjean had intended to rise earlier, but Javert had been so warm pressed against his back; and then when Javert himself had grumbled and risen for work it had been equally pleasant to watch the man’s precise machinations as he dressed, as regular and comforting as the movement of a clock’s hands. 

Valjean slipped out of bed, still in naught but his nightshirt. Javert was still trying to tug the trousers closed, his face contorted in the expression he got when man or beast or button dared stand between him and the object of his will. 

“You took in the waist after your illness,” Valjen reminded him, setting a hand on Javert’s waist and rubbing a thumb over the place on the trousers where the cloth had been folded over. He’d watched Javert do it, for of course the man had not permitted Valjean to take the garment to a tailor; he’d bent over it himself, sitting by the window for the light, and sewed an orderly line of stitches into the waist until he was satisfied with a job well done. It was an image Valjean remembered quite vividly, for it had been the first of many such individual flashes whose composite had ultimately been revealed as love. 

“I suppose,” Javert said begrudgingly. “Still, you’d best resolve yourself to watching me run to fat in all the years to come.”

“I am sure I will comfort myself somehow,” Valjean said, his hand slipping lower to pinch at Javert’s backside--which indeed was nothing like the bony protrusion Valjean’s fingers had traced when they first began their lovemaking. The result of Valjean’s cheekiness was a short yelp of Javert’s indignation, followed by an even shorter struggle which ensured neither of them were dressed for a good half hour afterward.

* * *

Valjean did not think of it again, until that night. They went to bed as they usually did, both in their nightshirts, Javert against Valjean’s broad chest, their bodies perfectly aligned. By now Valjean could tell when Javert was lying awake, still and relaxed but not sleeping; it was on nights like this that Valjean would let his hands begin to wander from their place on Javert’s chest, sliding up to the open V of his nightshirt to glide over bare skin and coax the deep hum from Javert’s throat that Valjean could feel down to his belly. 

It wasn’t long before they were rucking up their nightshirts, the movements far more leisurely than the hurried scramble of the first handful (or perhaps dozen) times they had done this. Valjean kept Javert pressed back-to-chest, simply exploring his body. Javert made a soft sound of protest at the inbalance of their situations, as his hand could only grope crudely at Valjean’s thighs and buttocks, which had its own appeal. 

Valjean quieted him with a kiss just below the ear, smiling into Javert’s neck as his hands traced soft stomach dusted with hair, the sharp rise of hipbones out of the softness, and then the slow decline into thigh. Valjean traced his fingertips up and down the seam Javert’s thighs made between them, pressed together. It was warm, and clearly sensitive, for Javert was already beginning to press back against him with the deep sighs of a bone-weary man finally finding his bed. 

But Valjean was in no hurry. He continued the leisurely exploration of his fingertips, back and forth, never travelling high enough to give Javert the relief he was growing desperate for. He allowed his fingers to push into the close press of Javert’s legs, so much more of them to feel now that the man was not starved with sickness of the body and heart. He was so warm, and tight around Valjean’s fingers, the muscles trembling beneath every touch.

“Valjean.” Javert’s voice was raw. For Valjean realized that he had been gently rocking his fingers into the seam between Javert’s thighs, in and out, and he may have been only a novice at pleasure but he was still a man of his sixties with time enough in his life to hear of how such things are done--

“A moment,” Valjean said, his own words heavy and thick. He pulled away from Javert only far enough to grope for the snuffed lamp on the bedside table until his fingers fumbled into the slickness he was searching for. When he rolled back over to press himself to the delicious warmth of the body in his bed, he found it trembling even harder than when he left it. He could see Javert’s fingers clenching in the sheets in the dim light from between the shutters, dark on the luminous paleness. 

“I’d like to--like this,” Valjean said, his fingers probing the backs of Javert’s legs. And of course, they slid between without difficulty, slick as they were; Javert arched against him with a sharp grunt as if Valjean were pressing into some even more tender and vital place, though they have not attempted that, not yet. A year ago such a thing would have been unthinkable, a month ago it had been a conversation awkwardly undertaken with the blush of wine and shyness in both their cheeks. Now Valjean will fuck him, between the legs, with every inch of their bodies pressed together and their sweat mingling and Valjean’s breaths in the warmth of Javert’s neck. 

He crooked his fingers, sliding them back and forth between Javert’s thighs a while longer, until Javert’s head was tilting back and his legs clenched so hard around Valjean’s hand that Valjean felt surely they could both find their release with nothing more than this, the sensation so easy to imagine around his cock which pressed hard against the back of Javert’s thighs.

“Valjean--for God’s sakes--”

“Yes,” Valjean breathed, and hastily spreading the remaining oil over his own length, he slowly pressed into the tight, slick place he had made between Javert’s thighs. 

Javert sighed, a sharp, shuddering noise. Valjean bit his lip and pressed his forehead to the back of Javert’s shoulder. It was not so tight as a hand or a mouth, yet sweeter still than the nights where they had rutted against each other to completion. He rocked his hips experimentally and found the sensation quite to his liking. It felt best when he was pressed as close as he could go, his own length nuzzling at the underside of Javert’s, pushing against the weight of his stones. Valjean reached a hand down to close around both of their cocks, the tip of his own and the base of Javert’s; at his gentle squeeze Javert made a noise of near-despair, pressing his face sideways into the pillow. 

“Hush now,” Valjean said against his neck, and kissed him there as he began to move once more. It was slow and languid, like the heat of friction building degree by degree until at last a fire could gasp to life. Even with practice, things between them were often over far too quickly. But like this--

“I believe I could take hours,” Valjean said, his cheek pressed to the warm dampness of Javert’s neck. He could feel every swallow, every thundering heartbeat. 

“Christ,” Javert hissed, his body giving a short spasm which suggested that Javert would have no such trouble. “You will _ not _ Valjean. Please. This is unbearable--”

But Valjean took his time, pausing only to slide his own leg over top of Javert’s to keep them levered tightly together. Valjean’s breathing was hard against Javert’s skin, and Javert pressed back into him with every fiber of his being, and Valjean would stroke him only sometimes, when he was certain it would not bring an end to things. Javert was soft and warm and slick in Valjean’s arms, and Valjean could do nothing but cling to him tighter and piston his hips until the heat building deep in his gut was spilling out over his entire body, wave after wave of prickling warmth that left him mouthing desperately at the flung-back column of Javert’s neck, shuddering as he spent between his legs. 

It was some time before Valjean could stop simply sighing against Javert’s flesh, and pressing sloppy kisses to any part of him within reach; Javert’s back rose and fell against his chest with steadily deepening breaths. When Valjean reached down between his legs to close his hand around Javert’s cock, he found it already softening from release. Javert made a short noise of chagrin. 

“It was alright?” Valjean said softly, after a moment. He could not help himself from touching Javert’s tender length a little longer, drawing more almost-pained noises out of him.

“It was perfectly awful, as you can tell,” Javert mumbled, and then made another noise of half-pleasure, half-complaint. “Leave it, Valjean, you could hardly be vain enough to hope to get more out of it than that.”

Valjean chuckled into his shoulder and allowed his hand to be captured by Javert’s; smiled again at Javert’s brief noise of affected disgust at the stickiness now left on Valjean’s palm. He could not help but think, as he had throughout the day, of Javert’s casual words that morning: _ in all the years to come. _What made them sweetest was the way they had been spoken, without a thought, as if those promised years together growing old and fat and unlovely to all but each other were not only natural but inevitable. 

Yes, Valjean thought, as Javert finally squirmed out of his arms with a series of grumbled complaints about the need for a washcloth. They had been inevitable for each other from the start. And then Javert was climbing back into bed to clean them off, and Valjean was kissing him with the slowness of all the long years yet before them.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Carpe Natem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20569994) by [Readaholics_Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Readaholics_Anonymous/pseuds/Readaholics_Anonymous)


End file.
